My Immoral
by C Maxwell Cooper
Summary: James Bond, Harry Potter, and Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way go toe to toe with Goldfinger
1. Chapter 1

My Immoral

The sky grows dark, **it was raining and snowing so there was no sun**. The cobblestone street is slick with the precipitation. A fierce wind washes inside my shirt collar, over my chest and back. I pull my overcoat around me and tie off the belt.

With long, quick strides I make my way toward a store-front window. In the window's reflection I make out the faded silhouette of the figure I believe is following me. I reach my right hand into my coat pocket, which has no liner, and release the clasp on the pistol holster on my belt.

I'm walking faster now, almost running, left hand punching forward and then back like the wheel rails on a steam locomotive to maintain my momentum, my right hand inside the coat pocket, cocking the pistol. My heel catches on a displaced cobblestone and I stumble, whirling as I fall, to see the figure in full-stride behind me.

I contemplate running. There's no longer any use pretending that either of us don't know the situation now. He's pursuing me and I'm trying to evade him, and we both know that the other comprehends what's happening.

I duck into the next doorway I come to, a hole-in-the-wall café full of cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee. A Shirley Bassey song plays on a 1960's style juke-box. The café is full of people, men wearing Italian suits and fedoras, women who all look like Aubrey Hepburn.

Trying to maintain my cool, I slowly make my way to the bar. The bartender approaches and asks in a cold, heavy German accent, "what can I get for you?"

"Is there a back door?" I ask breathlessly.

The German raises a thick arm slowly and points to the back of the café. I look in the direction the German points and through the cigarette-smoke haze see a doorway at the end of a narrow hall. I hear a bell jingle behind me and turn my attention to the front of the café in time to see my pursuer walk through the front door.

I slap a Euro on the bar and begin walking toward the back of the café. The bartender picks up the Euro and deposits it into his pocket at the same time that he makes eye-contact with my pursuer and points out to him the direction in which I've gone. But its too late, I'm already at the back door and turning the doorknob, freedom.

I step out into the brisk November chill. Wind-whipped snow has never felt so wonderful as it pelts my cheeks and forehead. I'm in an alley, there's only one direction for me to follow. I begin walking, then running. I round a corner. Dead end. I examine the buildings surrounding the alley. Mostly apartments with balconies too high overhead for me to reach. No doorways at ground-level. Some strange, generic music blasts from one of the apartment balconies. Its one of those modern songs that all of the high-school kids listen to. One of those songs where the artist exploits children who don't know where they fit in, and then labels the song "gothic". The DJ announces in German that the song was by a band called Evanescense.

I decide that I'm going to have to turn and confront my pursuer. I spin on my heels just in time to make eye-contact with him as he rushes to tackle me. I try to draw my pistol through my coat pocket, but he's too fast, he's already on top of me. We tumble to the ground together, rolling and wrestling on the dirty, wet cobblestone.

He won't let me draw my pistol from my pocket so I release the gun and take hold of his collar with both hands. He's on top of me now, slamming me into the ground. The back of my head strikes an oddly shaped cobblestone and for a moment I feel blackness close-in on me. Almost immediately I'm awake again, but one more bash against that stone and I'll lose consciousness.

I pull the opposite sides of his shirt-collar across his throat and watch his face turn red and the veins in his neck swell as the circulation cuts off. He releases his grip on me and pushes me away from him and for a moment I think that I've got an opening. But as soon as I let go of his collar he puts a muscular hand on my throat and pushes me onto my back on the ground again. He stretches his other hand behind him and instantly I notice what he's reaching for, a long knife in a sheath tied to his boot. I try to grab his hand to keep him from reaching the knife, but he's stronger than me, over-powers me, and now the knife is in his hand.

He raises the knife over his shoulder and prepares to bring it down with a forceful, deadly blow, but I catch his wrist before the blade can meet its mark, and now the knife is suspended between us with my attackers full weight bearing down upon it, the knife's tip a mere matter of centimeters from my sternum.

I grasp the attackers wrist with both hands and push away with all my strength, but its not enough. I strain as I try to push the knife away, but I can see the tip of the blade creeping downward. My attacker snarls, a few more moments and the blade will be inside my chest. I can already feel the tip breaking the skin, beginning to draw blood.

Suddenly I hear Marilyn Manson music blasting from the balcony overhead and a fierce battle shriek, "Go-go Goth force five, battle-Goths, unite!1"

As if from a scene in a Jerry Lewis film, my attacker and I forget our battle and look skyward to see what's happening.

The three of them come over the balcony together, hand in hand, a flapping, jagged flag of designer nylon fishnet, black lace, and combat boots. Their faces are painted in a bizarre amalgam of black eye-liner and black lip-stick with a white base.

My attacker and I look at one another in astonishment. As the three of them soar down from the balcony at us I think they look like pure evil. The teenage girl is in the center, the teenage boys are on either side of her, each one holding one of her hands.

"They must be Satanists," I say to my attacker.

"Ya," my attacker complies, "dem teeners ist satanischtes!1"

My instincts tell me that the girl is what teenagers call "hot". Pink fishnet stockings, combat boots, a black mini, and black T-shirt which has the words "Hot Topic" in big, squiggly, pink letters on the front. Instantly, I find myself mesmerized by her unique style and beauty.

The teenage boys beside her are dressed likewise, which suggests to me that they're probably homosexual outcasts dedicated to the downfall of society through communism.

Together the three of them descend from the balcony, soaring through the air in apparent slow-motion, their black capes snapping in the wind.

Their combat boots land in unison with a thud on the cobblestone a few inches from my head. The teenage girl directs the two boys, "spred out Draco, Harry- letz show deez prepz wuzzup mothafucka!!11".

They surround us. I throw my attacker off and we both rise to our feet, stunned. The teenage girl smiles at my attacker. With a look of terror on his face the attacker forces three stuttering words, "Who.. Wh.. Who are you?"

"I m Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way," the girl shouts, "n on behalve uv da most powrfall lard uv dorkniss himself, Satin, I m hear to stop ur bastardly plane!1"

The attacker turns to me with a baffled look.

"I don't know," I tell him.

"Listen, Ebony is it?" the attacker asks in a seemingly out-of-character but very polite British accent. Ebony nods her head.

"Listen Ebony," he continues, "do you know what I'm doing here?"

Ebony nods.

"Bringing about an end to mankind and all that," the attacker continues, "murder, wrath, general evil and mayhem as a representative of SPECTRE, you understand all of this, yes?"

Ebony nods again.

"Then why in the name of all bloody buggery would the lord of darkness send you here to interfere with my mission when I should imagine that in an indirect manner I'm only doing his bidding in the first place?"

"Iz not owr plaze 2 quezton hiz will, butt only 2 fullow hiz orderz, prep," Ebony replies.

"Yes, yes, I should have foreseen an answer along that vein," the attacker responds, "yes, that's fine and good Ebony. But then one more quick question dear, before you dispatch my soul to your nether-regions for all eternity, would that be alright with you love, one more question?"

Ebony boredly nods her head.

"Why do you use all of those 'Zs' when you speak love? You do realize this isn't proper English dear. I understand that this is hip lingo nowadays, but I thought it was mostly the hip-hop children who spoke as such, you know with the snoopy dog diggle and all of his shizzle my nizzle and etc. etc."

"Enuff!!11" Ebony shouts furiously, "Harry, show hiz azz sum majic!!11"

The dark-haired homosexual teenage boy draws a long wand from his vest pocket and points it in the direction of my attacker.

"Fumble-dee Bumble-bee, razzle-dee snazzle-dee, zoom-a zoom-zoom in da boom boom, and I'll sex you up!" he cries as a green ray shoots from his wand. Instantly the attacker is metamorphosed into Gerard Way who runs away screaming in terror like a tiny, little girl.

"Who are you?" I ask, "Why are you here?"

"I m Ebony Dark somethin and somethin Way, queen ova al dat iz dark nd ova-wait suizidal virginz!1 " she screeches, "n da res u cn fnd out ltr."

As she says this the blonde homosexual teenager approaches. He smiles and says in a simple-minded fashion, "I putted my thingy in her you-know-wutch-a-macallit."

Ebony looks away in sad disgust.


	2. Just a Little Bit of History Repeating

Chapter II- Just Little Bits of History Repeating

It's nightfall. I'm tearing down a snowy back-road in a '62 Austin Healy roadster. The plows have already been through and the snow is packed in banks along the sides of the road which are too high for me to see above from the driver's seat of the low-profile car.

The road is covered in a thin layer of icy snow and winds through hairpin curves and steep hills, but the car doesn't lose traction, it never has. The engine roars as I fly around a wide bend, the headlights casting wide swaths of dim light on the over-hanging, snow-laden branches of fastly approaching trees.

The car's radio is turned off, but a song follows me as I blast through the snowy country-side: horns and a jazz-piano, Shirley Bassey wailing, "I've seen it before, and I'll see it again".

"Curious," I whisper to myself with a devil-may-care grin as I light a Craven A brand cigarette, "it's all just a little bit of history repeating."

A melody of analogue-synth bells chimes through the radio speakers and the tele-picture screen on the Healy's dash blinks. I press the On/Communicate button beside the screen and it flutters to life. In modern black and white I can make out Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way's image on the tele-picture screen. Her jet-black hair with purple streaks and red tips falls over her shoulders. Her eyes are surrounded by dark rings of mascara reminiscent of a raccoon, and her black lipstick stands in stark contrast to its white base. She is even more striking than when we first met earlier in the day. She wears a black T-shirt that says GC in red squiggly letters on the front. I immediately recognize that the GC is code for "Good Charlotte", the hidden meaning being "Avoid North Carolina at all cost".

I press the On/Communicate button and say suavely through a cloud of exhaled smoke, "What's the haps Ebony baby?"

"Doez u gotz da directionz 2 da rendezvous point prep?" Ebony asks in a sexy, husky, dark and depressed voice.

"I'll be there with bells on," I answer in thick Scottish brogue.

"Didz u get all da stuff I tol u?" Ebony asks forcefully.

I eye the contents of the bag sitting on the passenger seat beside me- black make up, clove cigarettes, red wine, hair-mousse, and a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt.

"All present and accounted for," I reply with typical, sly intonation, "by the way Ebony, what are all these things for anyway?"

"Someonez going to 2 b doing a little undercover work Double O-No," Ebony says coyly, "da beginning of da end iz here, and it all starts with Hogwartz."

"Hogwarts, eh?" I say in a far-off tone, my mind racing ahead to the likely possibilities.

"Hogwarts," she repeats somberly, "Zo I'll zee u at midnight?"

"Midnight it is love," I say a little more seriously now.

I press the Off button on the tele-picture. So someone's going undercover, I think to myself. Well, that must be me. The beginning of the end is here. This all sounds a little too ominous for my taste. And it starts at Hogwarts. My mind is in knots now. I can't seem to work it through, what does it all mean? Her cryptic words have driven me to distraction now, I'm not concentrating, and that's why I don't notice the figure standing in the middle of the street.

It's a horrifying figure, almost transparent, red, ghastly eyes, a cold, deadly stare on it's face. I jam on the brakes but it's too late, I'm going too fast, the road is too icy. I slam into the figure, but "slam" isn't the correct word. I make contact with the figure and watch as my car passes through it. I watch the white, see-through body of the figure pass through my car, through the passenger seat, close enough for me to touch, as I skid down the road in the Austin Healy.

The car finally comes to rest atop a snow-bank, the front axle suspended off the ground. I turn and look out the rear window of the car. The figure has vanished. Immediately I shift the car into reverse and press on the gas. The rear wheels make a whirring noise as they slip on the ice-covered road. I'm stuck.

I exit the car and take a few steps backward to better examine the situation. The Austin Healy is perched almost on top of the snow bank. It will take me hours to dig it out with my bare hands, and I've only got two hours until midnight, to get to the rendezvous point.

The situation looks hopeless when suddenly a pair of headlights appears around the bend. It's a truck, a German military truck.


	3. Chapter 3

A cold splash of water on my face and my eyes are open.

"Mr. Dumbledore!" I shout in bleary delirium, "remove your hand from my special place!"

I shake the cobwebs loose from inside my skull and now I'm fully awake. I'm in a dungeon… somewhere.

There is a dull ache at the base of my neck where the East German Army commando delivered the Judo-chop which sent me into unconsciousness. There is a ringing in my ears and my wrists are sore from being chained to the stone wall behind me.

I look up and find myself staring into the blue eyes of a female Gestapo agent. Her green army uniform is form fitting and accentuates her breasts and rump. Sleeping with her may be my only means of escape, I think to myself.

With the gleaming white smile of a Nordic supermodel, the female Gestapo agent says in a thick East German accent, "Are you enjoying the accommodations Mr. Blonde?"

With a sly smile I reply in a charismatic Scottish brogue, "Well the room is acceptable, but you seem to have wrinkled my tuxedo."

"We can remedy that Mr. Blonde," she says as she motions to one her World War II era Tommy-Gun wielding henchmen to release me. The henchman reaches behind my back and the chains binding my wrists immediately fall away.

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Blonde?" the female Gestapo agent asks.

I examine my surroundings as I massage my wrists. The room is dimly lit. The walls and floor all comprise of thick stone slabs. There are numerous chains for restraining prisoners attached to the walls throughout the room. There is a sterile, white, doctor's examination table in the center of the room with a laser canon attached to the ceiling above it. In the far corner of the room the floor is glass and there is clearly a large pool of water with ferocious sharks swimming in it beneath the glass.

"We are in the interrogation dungeon of the Lundgren Castle in East Berlin, the main headquarters of the Marxist Revolutionary Socialist Army of the People for Liberation from the Democratic Capitalist Swine Movement," I answer.

"Very good, Mr. Blonde," the female Gestapo agent says, "and how, may I ask, did you deduce our location?"

"The same method by which I deduced your name Frau Grettenbachstein," I reply with a sly smile.

The female Gestapo agent raises her eyebrows in a questioning manner.

"Elementary my dear," I explain, "it says so on your uniform."

"Ah yes Mr. Blonde," she says with a victorious smile, "the same way I came to discover your identity." She holds my wallet out in front of me with it flipped open to my driver's license. The license has my picture on it with a debonair smile across my lips, wearing a black 1962 Brooks Brothers tuxedo, Craven A brand cigarette in hand, hair perfect, naturally. The license reads: James Blonde, International Super-Spy, Nationality: Whatever is Applicable, License Category: Classes A,C,D, Heavily Armored Super-Cars, License to Kill.

The female Gestapo agent continues, "I cannot tell you how happy I was when I discovered that I had Mr. James Blonde, International Super-Spy in my custody."

I say under my breathe, "Its not like I try very hard to conceal it," as I light a Craven A brand cigarette.

"Excuse me Mr. Blonde," she says smiling, "I could not make out that last part?"

"Daft slut," I continue under my breathe.

"Enough!" the female Gestapo agent screams, "you know that there is no escape for you Mr. Blonde."

"Well darling," I say as I run my fingertips softly down the length of her arm, "We'll see about that later." With my fingertips I can feel through her tight army uniform, feel her pulse increase, and I know instantly that she wants, yearns, for my long, thick, throbbing, penetrating, Scottish brogue.

The female Gestapo agent pivots in place and violently points her Soviet army issued leather horse-flog to the medical examination table in the center of the room.

"To the testicle-bisecting-ceiling-laser!" she shrieks.

Two henchmen grab me by my elbows, and no matter how violently I twist and writhe I cannot free myself from their grip, on my elbows.

And suddenly, for the first time in my long and distinguished career as undercover agent in the service of Her Royal Majesty, I begin to feel as though all hope may be lost. There are too many henchman to count, and the two henchmen who have their meat-hooks on my elbows seem to have super-human strength. I'm locked in the underground dungeon in the headquarters of one of the silliest and most violent communist movements in the history of the Cold War. My torture and execution are being overseen by a man-hating female Gestapo agent who is hell-bent on removing my manhood using a ceiling-mounted laser castration device, and inexplicably, my snub-nosed pistol is not in the breast pocket of my tuxedo. Yes, I worry, this may be the finale for Super Agent Double O-No, James Blonde.

The henchmen drag me over to the medical examination table. They hold me in place as other henchmen begin to undo the leather straps which will hold me in place on the table. Suddenly a door opens in the far corner of the room. A man in a late 1970's disco-era leisure suit enters the dungeon and approaches the medical examination table.

"Mr. blonde," the man says, "why are you dressed in that 1962 Brooks Brothers tuxedo? Why aren't you at the bank robbery, and where the hell is Steve Buscemi?"

Everyone stares at the man perplexedly. Suddenly the female Gestapo agent draws a Glock 9 pistol from her hip holster and shoots the man in the forehead sending him flopping violently onto the floor.

"Quinton Tarrantino," she says, "good film director, but obnoxious and over-bearing personality," she explains. The rest of us all nod with understanding.

"Onto the table!" she shouts in her brutal East German accent and whips the table with her leather horse-flog.

I struggle as the henchmen begin to force me down onto the table, but they are too strong and they overpower me.

"For Queen and country!" I shout as I close my eyes and prepare for the end, or at least for being castrated by a ceiling mounted laser.

A million thoughts race through my mind. I wonder if the wound will automatically be cauterized. I mean, it is a laser. Will the lack of testicles affect my status as an international super-spy? Will I have to re-classify as a female Super-Spy? Will I begin to ovulate? Oh no, what about PMS. With my skill-set I could really do some damage while PMSing. Has anyone ever considered that when Godzilla destroyed Tokyo maybe she was just a giant fire-breathing lizard who was PMSing? Maybe a little bit of caring and consideration for her situation would have made all the difference in the world. Seriously, why can't men be more understanding? Would I do Godzilla? I mean, I've done everyone else. That would be one crazy lay.

And suddenly there is a giant "POOF" noise and a cloud of dark and depressing black smoke fills the room. Next I hear the familiar sound of six black combat boots thudding onto the stone slab floor. 'Just in the knick of time' I think to myself.

"Halt bitchez!" the battle-cry rings out in a husky, sexy, almost masculine voice.

Its her! My heart palpitates for a moment. Its Ebonics Dorkness Dementia Raven-Way!

"You, haunchmen," she shouts as she waves a black majick wand around the room, "get ur handz n da heir!"

The henchmen all look at each other in a state of confusion. Two young men stand on either side of Ebony. The one with black hair turns to her and says, "I think they're East German henchmen, Ebony, and probably don't speak English, or whatever it is you speak."

Suddenly one of the henchmen turns to the black-haired young man and says in English, "Actually, we all speak English very well, friend- its part of the training required to become an evil-henchman. We just aren't very familiar with 21st Century American teenage outcast lingo."

The same henchman then turns to Ebony, "Say love," he continues, "if you're having trouble fitting in at school why don't you join one of the female athletic teams? I mean you're a big, strong lass, clearly you eat healthy enough, you could probably get on the girls volleyball team without much trouble, and who knows, I mean its not like there's any shortage of lesbos on the volleyball team, you might meet the love of your life. Just some words of encouragement love. Keep your chin up and maybe cut back on some of the black clothes and odd make-up. I mean honestly love, you look like a satanic Bozo The Clown impersonator."

Then the henchman turns back to the black-haired young man, "Say friend," the henchman says with a cheeky grin, "you're that young Harry Potter fellow, ain't you?"

The black-haired young man nods in acknowledgement.

The henchman goes on, "I saw a porno flick just last week which parodied you and your little crew there."

The black-haired young man stares at the henchman with a look on his face which says he's heard it all before.

"Yeah brother," the henchman continues, "It was called 'Hairy Twatter and the Prisoners of Ass You Can'. Oh my, great little flick, friend. I massaged my greasy bratwurst to it quite a few times on Saturday. Had to come in for work on Sunday of course, and it was due back at the rental store on Monday, but I enjoyed it while I had it! You know what I mean friend! And let me tell you something, the little lassie they had playing Hermione, she was something else, let me tell you. Of course, in this version of the movie she was called Sperm On Me. See how that works friend? Its a little play on words, Hermione and Sperm On Me? No? Okay brother, well try not to look so sour. Oh, and let me tell you, did they do you some justice friend! You were quite the man if you know what I mean! Of course, looking at you now, I can see that you're still growing down there, but don't get discouraged, we can't all be porno stars. And even if it never develops as it should, well that's no excuse for deliberately making an outcast of yourself. I mean come on lad, all these black clothes and the make-up. Come on, make-up on a boy? Are you a poof son? Or just confused? Anyway, don't go walking into the wrong parts of town looking like this son, you'll be coming back with a sore arse-hole if you catch my drift here brother. Just a little advice from someone with a little more experience than yourself."

"Enuff!11" Ebony shouts as she waves her black wand violently, "Sleep now in the fire!" Rage Against the Machine? Seriously? Where the hell did she get that from?

Instantly all of the henchmen fall unconscious to the floor, writhing about as though engulfed in fire. Could it have been a coincidence? I wonder.

Freed from the hands of the henchmen I turn to the female Gestapo agent.

I stare charmingly into the female Gestapo agent's eyes, and in my typical Scottish brogue I say, "Well Frau Grettenbachstein, it seems as though the tables have taken a turn in my favor."

Menacingly she stares back at me and says in her coldest East German accent, "you will never get away Mr. Blonde. We will find you."

My smile becomes an icy glower. I cock my arm back behind my shoulder, and unleash a single, brutal, close-fisted blow to the female Gestapo agent's forehead. She instantly collapses onto the ground, unconscious.

"Shaken, not stirred, bitch," I say.


	4. Chapter 4

_**I'm approaching Hogwarts in the '62 Austin Healy. The school-grounds are alive with activity. An assortment of dragons of every color and size fly in formation overhead. Young witches and wizards roam the boundaries of the school-yard practicing their spells, turning the leaves on the trees from green to yellow to red and then back to green. A group of young wizards is engaged in a strange sport which reminds me somewhat of soccer, except that the young wizards are all riding air-borne broomsticks and the ball they are playing with remains constantly in flight. **_

_**I slowly make my approach in the Austin Healy, I'm feeling slightly apprehensive. I bring the car to a stop in the courtyard of the main entrance hall and disembark. I stand beside the Austin Healy for a moment, straightening my grey suit, adjusting my thin black tie, taking in my surroundings. **_

_**Suddenly I hear what sounds like a ball rolling along the ground nearby. **_

_**I look up just in time to see one of the young wizards riding his broomstick quickly in my direction.**_

"_**A little help there, Muggle!" the young wizard shouts to me with a snide grin on his lips. **_

_**Instantly I whirl in place, bend my knees and hips, assuming the classic stance. I draw my snub-nosed Walther PPK pistol from my breast pocket, and drill the red ball with a single shot, deflating it instantly. **_

_**The young wizard's jaw drops as he glares at me in horrified astonishment.**_

"_**Oh Miss Moneypenny," I say slowly with a smile as I turn away, replacing the Walther PPK in my breast pocket. **_

_**A moment later and I'm inside the entrance of the Great Hall. The chatter of noisy teenagers fills every corner of the building. **_

_**The voice of a teenaged girl, "Did you see what Gerard Way wore to the Grammy Award ceremony last night, he looked so goth! If we ever dated, my parents would hate him soooo much!"**_

_**The voice of another teenaged girl in response, "Oh my God, I heard that Gerard Way and Jared Leto got into a slap-fight at the awards ceremony after-party because Gerard Way said that his black Porsche got him more 13-year-old poon than Jared Leto's faux-hawk! They are such rebels!"**_

_**The voice of a teenaged boy, "Dude, did you see Avril Levine at the Grammy Ceremony last night? She looked hot as shit!"**_

_**The voice of another teenaged boy in response, "Oh yeah dude, I would fuckin' nail that shit soooo fuckin' hard man!" Then the teenaged boys slap a high-five and he continues, "Yeah man, I would like, totally penetrate her, like 4 inches deep, with my tiny, little, under-developed, fourteen-year-old dick!" **_

_**I look around in dismay, beginning to regret my decision to come here. **_

_**I turn to leave the Great Hall when a firm hand clasps my bicep. **_

"_**Mr. Blonde?" a stern voice asks, "Mr. James Blonde?"**_

_**I turn to face the voice and find myself confronted by an older woman. Her grip on my arm is strong and man-like, her voice is shrill and discompassionate, her face is the scowl of an old and embittered schoolmarm. **_

"_**Ah," I say, "Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonegall I presume?"**_

"_**You presume correctly Mr. blonde," she says coldly, "We haven't time to waste. Please follow me."**_

"_**At you service Madame," I reply as she hurries briskly away. I follow.**_

_**Minutes later and we're outside a great, ancient door. **_

"_**I'll leave you here, Mr. Blonde," the old dame says.**_

"_**Yes, thank you, Ma'am," I say apprehensively, "but Madame, what is on the other side of this door?"**_

_**With a knowing stare, Deputy Headmistress McGonegall says, "What is on the other side of this door, Mr. Blonde, are things which the Muggle world need not know about."**_

_**And before I could say anything else she was halfway down the hall, floating briskly away. **_

_**I turn back toward the door. I inhale deeply, not knowing what to expect, expecting the worst. In a place like this, what could be behind this door? What could be so horrific that it needed to be shrouded from the Muggle world, the world of those who did not practice magic? A dragon? A demon? The kind of eternal knowledge which would drive a man to madness? I hold my breathe and muster my courage. I knock once, twice, I knock three times. **_

_**No answer.**_

_**I knock again, three times.**_

_**Still no answer. **_

_**Finally, I take a moment to steady my nerves, and push the door forward. Immediately, a thick plume of dark mist wafts forward. But it isn't mist, no, its smoke, with a distinctly herbal scent to it. **_

_**I stand outside the door for a moment allowing the smoke to clear a little. Finally, through the haze, I can see figures in various places and positions, inside the room behind the door. I squint and stare, trying to make out the scene before me, when the voice of an old man comes forward, "Come in, come in already!" the voice shouts with jolly intonation, "you needn't advertise us to in the entire student body!" This is followed by long bellows of rasping laughter.**_

"_**Come on mate!" a younger voice calls through the haze, "you're letting all the smoke out of the clam-bake!" And now a chorus of voices, young and old, erupt into laughter. **_

_**I step inside.**_

"_**Close the door dickbrain!" the old man's voice shouts at me.**_

_**I close the door behind me. I stand in place for a few seconds, just inside the door, trying to make-out the scene before me, but I can't, the smoke is too thick.**_

"_**Come in, come in," the old man's voice chortles.**_

"_**Yes, come in and join the party!" a younger voice calls out.**_

_**Tentatively, I begin to make my way through the haze, toward the voices. Finally, I arrive in the antechamber. **_

_**Through the smoke I can make out a number of figures, but the smoke is so thick that it obscures my view and I cannot clearly make out any of the others in the room with me. Also, I notice that I am beginning to feel a little light-headed and euphoric. Curious.**_

"_**Mr. James Blonde," the old man's deep voice bellows out, "we have been waiting upon your arrival."**_

_**Before continuing I query, "I apologize, but I find myself a little disoriented. May I open a window?"**_

_**There is silence for a moment. Finally, the old man's voice comes through the smoke, "Yes, yes," then the voice directs, "Harry, open a window for our friend here, Mr. James Buzzkill," and the room erupts into a cacophony of laughter again. **_

_**I feel a breeze as the window opens, and moments later the haze has cleared enough for me to make out the occupants of the room. **_

_**In the center of the room is a circular stone wall filled with bubbling water. A witches cauldron I suspect, until I see young Miss Hermione Granger pop her head up through the bubbling water, purple bikini clad, her hair wet and matted down around her neck. She goes to her knees in the bubbling water. "Hello Mr. blonde," she says seductively as one of her breasts pops out of the bikini and I look away to avoid her erect nipple pointed at my forehead. I looked away uneasily as Hermione cackles hysterically at my discomfort. **_

"_**Ah, Mr. Blonde," the old man's voice blasts, "international Super-Spy!"**_

_**Again the room erupts into laughter. I suddenly notice that although this is definitely not the kind of scene I am usually into, I am beginning to feel distinctly less somber, and even though I am unaware of what I find funny, I have to resist the urge to laugh. **_

"_**Headmaster Dumbledore I presume," I say as calmly as I can.**_

"_**We are glad you could make it Mr. Blonde!" the old wizard howls, "we have some business to discuss!" He follows this with raucous laughter with causes me at first to smirk, then grimace, then bow over with laughter.**_

"_**Ah yes, Mr. Blonde," the wizard continues, "I see you have fallen under our spell. Don't hold back Mr. Blonde, enjoy! Be alive! Allow yourself the joy of living!" **_

_**Unable to control myself, I ask through tears of laughter, " Mr. Dumbledore, what kind of magic spell have you filled this room with?" I wave my hand at the smoke around me. **_

"_**Ah Mr. Blonde," Dumbledore laughs, "there is nothing magical about the air of merriment in this room. It is merely the aura of simple, organic, herbal refreshment!"**_

"_**Excuse me," I say, finding my sobriety again.**_

"_**Yes Mr. Blonde," Dumbledore bellows, "salvia, salva mea, Mary J, ganja, the green gangsta good fellow, 420, the Alaskan thundfuck, the domestic don juan, giggle twig, green grass, hocus pocus, the homegrown hooch, mbanja, panama red, one hit wonder, reefer, schwag, skunk, stems, sweet lucy, Turkish delight, wacky tabacky, dat shit dat will fuck you up 'til you don't know if you're coming or going!"**_

"_**No, Mr. Dumbledore," I argue, "I am a product of the swinging '60's London, and I can tell you Mr. Dumbledore, this is not a marijuana high that I am feeling."**_

"_**No Mr. Blonde," he persists, "not in the sense in which you are familiar with marijuana. This is hydroponic my friend! The potential of Afghani Cush has been maximized!" he says as he rolls on his haunches with laughter.**_

_**Instantly I regain my composure. **_

"_**Mr. Dumbledore!" I say sternly, "why have you summoned me here today?"**_

_**An unhappy scour appears on Dumbledore's face.**_

"_**Harry!" the old wizard shouts, "come here boy!"**_

_**Harry Potter dazedly crosses the room, stands before Dumbledore.**_

"_**On your knees, before me, Harry!" Dumbledore shouts.**_

_**Harry Potter kneels before Dumbledore as the bearded wizard loosens the belt holding his robe closed. **_

"_**Mr. Blonde," the wizard says, addressing me, "a new threat has been born which poses a threat to our way of life."**_

_**Now the wizard's robe is open and he places his hands upon the back of Harry Potter's head.**_

"_**How is this my concern," I begin, "how do you suppose that I, James Blonde, international Super-Spy, 'Muggle', can assist the wizarding world in its quest against whatever power might be threatening it?"**_

_**Now Dumbledore is thrusting his hips rhythmically as his hands pull Harry Potter's head forward and backward toward his genitalia.**_

"_**Mr. Blonde," the old wizard continues, "what threatens Hogwarts threatens not only the world of magic, but the mortal world, 'the Muggle world', as well. It is a sinister evil, Mr. Blonde, with roots dating back to the beginning of mankind, and beyond. It threatens everything we know, everything which exists. It has the power to bring about the end of us all, Muggle and magician."**_

"_**Ok, old man," I reply, "so where do I begin?"**_

"_**You've known all along," the wizard answers, "SPECTRE, your old arch-nemesis."**_

"_**Alright, wizard," I reply, "SPECTRE it is."**_

_**Harry Potter gags, then withdraws from the old man's crotch, spewing a slime of white dribble from his mouth.**_

"_**Choked on me pasta primavera, I have," he says with a goofy, stoned grin.**_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V: Enter Mike Meyers

An hour later and I'm back on the road in the 62' Austin Healy. I'm still in a bit of a daze from the psychedelic episode at Hogwarts. I open the Austin Healy's glove box and press the martini button. Nothing sharpens the senses quite like a few strong martinis.

A moment later a perfectly blended martini rises from the Austin Healy's center console, olive on a toothpick included. I raise the martini glass to my lips and lustfully imbibe the gin concoction. I immediately begin to feel refreshed, my health restored. I genuinely wonder how other people manage to function without a healthful regimen of hourly martinis. I light a Craven A brand cigarette and take a deep drag. I'm beginning to feel righted again.

The melody signaling an incoming message on the tele-picture chimes. I press the On/Communicate button. The black and white screen flickers to life. It's Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way.

"Hay prep, ware wuz u lazt nite? I weighted da rendezvous point until pazt my curfew. Now my momz iz all in a hizzy, yo."

"I was side-tracked at Hogwarts with your young friend, Mr. Harry Potter, my love," I say coyly toward the tele-picture's microphone. The martinis are beginning to take effect and I suddenly feel myself becoming amorous.

"Oh hell yeah dog!" Ebony exclaims, "dem mothas had an ounce o' dat good shizzle last night di'int day? Didz you hit dat shit yo?11"

I find Ebony's deceptiveness charming. Clearly, she is disguising her personality beneath that of a fly, young, hip-hop girl, to throw off anyone who may be eavesdropping on our conversation.

"I abstained darling," I confess as the front end of the Austin Healy briefly lifts off the ground. There is the momentary sound of a dog yelping from beneath the car. "But I must admit my dear, Dumbledore's spell was difficult to resist."

"Awww yeah yo!" Ebony chants with enthusiastic approval.

"So Ebony," I say, preparing to take the conversation in a more business-oriented direction, "when and where shall we meet tonight? I have important business to discuss."

"Can you make it to da off-shore, oil-rig, secret MI-5 base in the Baltic sea by midnight?" Ebony asks.

"I can try, pussycat," I say with a debonair smile.

"Ah-ight," Ebony says with a wide smile painted across her purple-painted lips, "Zo I c u midnight, yo."

"I will see you there, my love," I say, my own words sparking a pang of hesitation. Am I actually beginning to love this woman-child?

"You still gotz all da stuff for goin' unda-cova, yo?" Ebony asks.

I reach beneath the passenger seat and take hold of the paper bag containing my goth teen disguise.

"All present and accounted for," I reply.

"Good," Ebony says, "an' bring a box of Trojans, yo"

"Oh Ebony!" I say, trying to deepen my voice, "I've been dreaming of the day I could grasp my hands around your double-D bottom and enter your Hogwarty cavern."

"Don't even think about it preppy, I gotz a cheese infection in my cooch, yo. Naw, you gotz sum smugglin to do."

"Smuggling, or snuggling?" I say with sly, 1960's intonation.

"Yo, you lines even cheesier dan my cooch, Blonde," Ebony says with disgust.

"And yet my lines turn your cheese into cream cheese, my love," I say sultrily, "if only in your dreams."

"Word," Ebony says with a smile, "Salt'N'Peppa out yo, preppy azz white boyeee."

I can tell by the aggression in her voice that her mind is awash in sexual tension. And yet, I am perplexed. I had always assumed that all teenage goth girls were living in the closet, seeking a way by which to demonstrate to their parents that they prefer snatch... ing life from the depths of Christian Evangelical ignorance.

I press the glove-box martini button again and another martini appears. I remove the olive and toothpick and throw them onto the passenger seat floor. I tilt my head back and pour the drink down my throat. Flogging Molly, its good! The numerous martinis have begun to give me an air of 'relaxation' and I find myself having difficulty maintaining a steady direction in the Austin Healy on the windy Scottish Highland road.

Bleary-eyed, I notice a poofy spot in the road a few hundred meters ahead. I squint and lean forward toward the windshield. What in the name of Daniel Craig is that. I speed toward the poof in the road. 'Oh look, it's a pretty little kitten!' I think to myself. With martini difficulty I try to steer the Austin Healy's tires around the kitten. The Austin Healy whirs past the kitten. I check the rearview mirror and there is nothing in the road but a squashed tomato. The kitten must have gotten out of the way just in time.

The tele-picture melody cues again.

"Telepathy picture on," I slur.

The tele-picture sputters on in modern black and white. I can make out the image of a man on the tele-picture's screen, but my vision is becoming blurry, and I cannot say decisively who the man is.

"Double Oh-No, are you there!" a voice calls from the tele-picture speaker.

I recognize the voice immediately.

"Yeth, I'm here," I slur, "ith that you Austin Powers?"

And as soon as I say 'Austin Powers" the Austin powers up its hood-mounted guided missile system and launches two scud missiles at the nearest roadside cottage. The cottage erupts into flames. A dozen sheep corralled in the front yard burst into flame with their oily wool acting like a wick. An old woman, hair ablaze, throws open the front door of the cottage and runs into the yard. Looking for comfort, her sheep surround her, creating a giant bonfire stinking of that burnt hair smell.

My jaw drops as I gaze at the horrible scene that I'm flying past in the Austin Healy. I press the glove-box martini button again.

"Blonde, are you there?" Austin Powers shouts over the tele-picture, "Pay attention, yeah baby!"

"I'm here Powers," I say into the tele-picture microphone, trying to regain my composure, "do you have news for me?"

"Yeah groovy baby!," Austin Powers exclaims with self-assured, if sexually ambiguous, intonation, "All of MI-5 is on alert, you funky, sexy, panther!"

"Why?" I reply, fearing the worst, "why is all of MI-5 on alert?"

"Haven't you heard, baby," Austin answers, "SPECTRE is up to its old tricks again, you funky, foxy, mean-machine, man-toy!"

"Yes Austin," I say, "I have heard about the SPECTRE threat. Are the women safe?"

"Well," Austin begins, "yes, most of the women are safe."

"Most?" I press, "what do you mean most?"

"Well," Austin says, "all the important women are safe."

"And by important women you mean...?"

"Elizabeth and Heather are fine, love," Austin says.

"And Beyonce?" I ask.

"Well, you know..." Austin says.

"You'll have to be more specific Austin" I say.

"That hip-hop bitch ruined the third movie baby!" Austin says.

"Okay, Okay," I say, "focus Austin, I have instructions."

"Do go on you sexy, tuxedo-wearing, fag-smoking, hunk of sexually ambiguous British love-meat."

"Don't say that again Austin."

"I understand," Austin answers somberly, "sorry chum, you know, free love and all that."

"LISTEN Austin," I say sternly, "I'm meeting with Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way at the secret MI-5 base on the oil-rig in the Baltic Sea at midnight. I suspect her Hogwarts friends will be at the meeting also. Can you make it to the meeting?"

"I'll be there with bells on!"

"Austin, I just warned you about that," I say.

"Well I'm sorry, Mr. Huffypants," Austin replies, "I'm a sixties swinger. When I see a hole, I excavate it, regardless of the gender of the troll who owns the cave!"

"Just be at the meeting, Austin."

"I'll be there."


End file.
